MARCH, tho' the Hours of promise with bright ray May gild thy noons, yet, on wild pinion borne, Loud Winds more often rudely wake thy morn, And harshly hymn thy early-closing day....
Light as the breeze that hails the infant morn The Milkmaid trips, as o'er her arm she slings Her cleanly pail, some fav'rite lay she sings As sweetly wild and cheerful as the horn....
My heart shall be thy garden. Come, my own, Into thy garden; thine be happy hours Among my fairest thoughts, my tallest flowers, From root to crowning petal, thine alone. ...
My heart shall be thy garden. Come, my own, Into thy garden; thine be happy hours Among my fairest thoughts, my tallest flowers, From root to crowning petal, thine alone. ...
Ah! hapless stranger! who, without a tear, Can this sad record of thy fate survey? No angry tempest laid thee breathless here, Nor hostile sword, nor Nature's mild decay. ...
Never did sculptor's dream unfold A form which marble doth not hold In its white block; yet it therein shall find Only the hand secure and bold Which still obeys the mind....
Oh! Death will find me, long before I tire Of watching you; and swing me suddenly Into the shade and loneliness and mire Of the last land! There, waiting patiently, ...
O precious evenings! all too swiftly sped! Leaving us heirs to amplest heritages Of all the best thoughts of the greatest sages, And giving tongues unto the silent dead!...
Sweet wreck of loveliness! alas, how soon The sad brief summer of thy joys hath fled: How sorrows Friendship for thy hapless doom, Thy beauty faded, and thy hopes all dead....
She wept. Life's purple tide began to flow In languid streams through every thrilling vein; Dim were my swimming eyes, my pulse beat slow, And my full heart was swell'd to dear delicious pain....
Sweet songstress! whom the melancholy Muse With more than fondness loved, for thee she strung The lyre, on which herself enraptured hung, And bade thee through the world its sweets diffuse....
A noble Lady of the Italian shore Lovely and young, herself a happy bride, Commands a verse, and will not be denied, From me a wandering Englishman; I tore One sonnet, but invoke the muse once more...
Some misbelieving and profane in love, When I do speak of miracles by thee, May say that thou art flatter'd by me, Who only write my skill in verse to prove See miracles, ye unbelieving, see!...
Desponding Father! mark this altered bough, So beautiful of late, with sunshine warmed, Or moist with dews; what more unsightly now, Its blossoms shriveled, and its fruit, if formed,...
Crowned, girdled, garbed and shod with light and fire, Son first-born of the morning, sovereign star! Soul nearest ours of all, that wert most far, Most far off in the abysm of time, thy lyre...
The bitterness of death and bitterer scorn Breathes from the broad-leafed aloe-plant whence thou Wast fain to gather for thy bended brow A chaplet by no gentler forehead worn....
Clouds here and there arisen an hour past noon Chequered our English heaven with lengthening bars And shadow and sound of wheel-winged thunder-cars Assembling strength to put forth tempest soon,...
Greene, garlanded with February's few flowers, Ere March came in with Marlowe's rapturous rage: Peele, from whose hand the sweet white locks of age Took the mild chaplet woven of honoured hours:...
A wild moon riding high from cloud to cloud, That sees and sees not, glimmering far beneath, Hell's children revel along the shuddering heath With dirge-like mirth and raiment like a shroud:...
Fit retribution, by the moral code Determined, lies beyond the State's embrace, Yet, as she may, for each peculiar case She plants well-measured terrors in the road...